


Only One in the World

by azure_horizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure_horizon/pseuds/azure_horizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he sees Irene Adler after the Last Time He Saw Irene Adler, he’s strapped to a bed, his head is pounding and he’s naked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only One in the World

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Scandal in Belgravia and Reichenbach Fall. Set some time during the hiatus.

The first time he sees Irene Adler after the Last Time He Saw Irene Adler, he’s strapped to a bed, his head is pounding and he’s naked.

Not only is he, in fact, very naked he’s also hard as a rock and attempting to shove his cock down Irene’s throat. She doesn’t seem to mind, he thinks, if the guttural noises of approval coming from her throat are anything to go by. 

He can’t watch. He can’t help but watch because the bright red of her lipstick is leaving bright smears up the length of his prick and her made-up eyes flutter closed each time she hollows her cheeks and-

She sits back suddenly and Sherlock gets the first glimpse of her attire (or rather, her lack of attire) and he thinks, with a small eye-roll to accompany his grunt of disapproval at her retreat, it rather clichéd: the corset is pulled tight and too low, her ample bust pushed up so much that it’s starting to overflow; her usually perfectly coiffed curls are coming undone, a few wisps sticking to her neck and forehead; the make-up, usually so painstakingly applied, is smudged around her eyes and lips and the rosiness of her cheeks has nothing to do with blusher. She stands and he catches sight of stockings and garters and shoes with heels that he was sure he saw one of the Amsterdam Prostitutes wearing earlier that evening.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Irene,” he manages after he regains some form of self-control (he glares at his straining prick) and she turns to him with a smirk and a knowing eyebrow raised.

“What a lucky coincidence then,” she replies as she bends over at the waist, rummaging through Sherlock’ own travel bag. When she stands there’s a gleam in her eye and he watches as she twirls the tube of linseed oil he’d acquired at some point in his sexual life. “Now, why would someone like you need something like this?” But she’s smiling and unscrewing the lid and Sherlock watches as slick oil, tangy and bitter, slithers down her fingers. His prick twitches with unrestrained interest as he watches her rub her fingers together, the smirk on her smudged lips widening as she watches him. “I think I should perhaps be a little shocked that you know my plans, Sherlock.”

He raises an eyebrow and she laughs daintily, a sound that would not be out of place in the dining halls of The Grosvenor and it makes him twitch again. 

“Now, now Irene – I don’t know what you are referring…” He trails off when she drops to her knees between his spread thighs, her hand catching on the hairs there and the breath catches in his throat – raw, wrecked and wanting. 

She strokes her hand up and down, once each way and he feels every ounce of blood throb through his prick and it’s almost painful. She tuts, tilts her head and there’s a tongue at the head, slithering against the slit and he bucks and his arms strain as he pulls against the cuffs holding him to the bed and damn it she has him trussed up good and proper and-

There’s a finger inside of him and he should have been more prepared for it but the breach takes him by surprise, the accuracy and assurance of her touch far too much for his not-inconsiderable brain to handle and he’s bucking against the swirling touch and the probing finger and he’s not sure what he wants more – to be inside of her or for her to find something to put inside of him.

“My, my, Sherlock,” she murmurs, her tone amused and Sherlock casts his mind back a few seconds and groans because yes, he really had just said that aloud. “What has the good doctor been teaching you?” He gasps and she smiles against the underside of his prick, where she’s mouthing him as she works another finger inside of him, spreading and there’s a slow burn that aches in such a way that it’s good. It’s so good. 

“Irene…” He groans and he will never admit to it later but he thrashes around on the bed, straining away from everything that tethers him down when her fingers press against his prostrate, when she rubs over and over and he’s almost undone almost and he could be but-

She withdraws her fingers and the noise he makes is both wounded and half protest and he can hear that laugh again as she leaves him empty and bereft.

“Such little faith in me, Sherlock.”

There’s something cool and metallic and wet brushing up the inside of his thigh and he opens his eyes, lifts his head to see her dragging the domed head of his walking stick (a gift for John, actually, that Sherlock had picked up on a whim that he knows he can never give to him) up his aching prick and he arches into it, and he almost begs but he won’t give her the satisfaction but he wants oh how he wants-

“Irene!”

And it’s almost a whine, almost a moan – he’s not even sure because she’s pressing the slicked up metal against him and he’s nowhere near prepared enough for it and the first breach burns and he’s moaning and shouting but he’s rocking down against it and he’s a pitiful state, he knows it he knows but he doesn’t care because he needs-

She shifts, the stick fully lodged inside of him and he can’t even open his eyes to look at her, tries to concentrate on her movements but the only movements he cares about in that moment are those of his hips and the walking stick inside of him because the angle is not quite right and he needs-

The sound that comes out of him is undignified in its animalism but Irene is warm and wet and rocking up and down against him and he rolls his hips, moans at the overwhelming intensity of the double sensations and he wants nothing more than to grab a hold of her, to grab the stick and angle it perfectly inside of him as he drives up into her but he can’t and his wrists will have bruises and wouldn’t John love that-

He snaps his eyes open and watches her, astride him, her back arched away from him and she’s grabbing onto the stick, moving it not-quite in time with their movements and the discrepancy is enough to drive him a little wild, and he will be ashamed by the state of himself later but now all he wants is this, this complete and utter dissociation of Irene’s warm heat surrounding him and hard metal pushing up inside of him and the sight Irene bobbing up and down, her breasts fighting loose of the bodice, her nipples dusky pink and neglected as Irene uses the stick and his thigh for leverage and she’s getting tighter around him, her own animalism escaping in high pitched moans of pleasure that reverberate throughout his body and they are uncontrollable, rocking, riding, resplendent together. 

He may have lost unconsciousness for a few moments because by the time he manages to open his eyes again, Irene is slumped against him, her nipple brushing against his chin and he tilts his head to capture it between his lips. She mewls and the effort is too much for even him and he sighs into her hair, his lips finding her temple.

“Irene…” She hums. He sighs, wincing as his hips jerk and dislodge him from inside of her. “Thank you.”

She smiles and he feels her hands curl around his wrists, fingering the cuffs but he shakes his head – he quite likes it and he still has feeling in his arms. Uncuffing him can wait.

“I always know what you need,” she murmurs as she settles on top of him, her fingers curled around his wrists and Sherlock smiles.

If only that were true.


End file.
